Disclaimer: Despite my untold wealth and riches, I don't own Supernatural.
A/N: This was written a few months ago for a story exchange at SPN_BigPretzel at LJ and I just plumb forgot to post it here too. It's also based rather loosely on a song called 'The Scotsman' by Brian Bowers - one of my favorites from the days of 'Dr. Demento' and his radio show. I hope you enjoy! :)
Sam couldn't remember seeing his brother have this much fun without the aid of beer or whiskey. And he would have never guessed in a million years that Dean would have been into this kind of thing, but here they were, dressed in ridiculous medieval attire and brandishing cardboard swords.
But seriously … LARPing? Dean? Really?
Sure, his brother was always over-enthusiastic whenever they needed to slip into character for a case – the time when they went back in time to the Old West to kill a phoenix came to mind, but he never let on that he was interested in pretending to be some medieval knight or that he would have so much fun pretending to be Braveheart's doppelganger. While it was true that Dean has seen the movie more times than was healthy, Sam never would have guessed that his brother had the whole thing frickin' memorized until he gave the speech in front of the 'knights'.
But seeing the infectious smiles on Dean's face - the first true and open ones since he broke out of purgatory-was refreshing to say the least. And even though Sam felt ridiculous wearing his hair tied in a ponytail and face painted like a Scottish warrior, he was happy that Dean was happy. And Sam had to admit the whole thing had been pretty fun.
Dean's blue make-up was smeared, and his long, blond wig (Sam still didn't know what possessed his brother to wear that thing) was skewed atop of his head. Dean's fake plastic broadsword was bent in the middle from the fierce melee. But he emerged victoriously from the battle, high-fiving people as he strode from the field, accepting praise and slaps on the back.
He approached his brother with a wide smile. "Well, that was kick in the pants, eh, Sir Sammy?"
"Actually, that was kinda fun," Sam said with a grin, unable to defend himself against Dean's infectious giddiness. "But, if you ever call me that again, I will burn your wig."
"You wouldn't dare –"Dean came back, stroking the long, blond locks protectively. Sam was about to retort suggesting Dean should become the next spokesperson for L'Oreal because he was 'worth it'. But he was blocked in his attempt by a gaggle of four 'knights' and a man dressed as a wizard rushing up to them and bowing formally. Sam and Dean looked at each other askance, wondering if they should bow in return. Until one knight, a kid who couldn't be more than twenty years old, dressed in plastic chainmail, stood up and proceeded to unroll a scroll and read from it.
"Our Majesty, the Queen of Moondoor, wishes to invite you to the royal highland games at the empty field located behind the old Cooper farmhouse on Westmoreland Lane tomorrow at noon. Following the games there shall be a feast and celebration with food, music, and much merriment. However, drinks are BYOB and everyone is asked to bring a dish to pass."
Dean bounced a little on his heels, "There's a party?"
The kid rolled the paper back up with a grin and slipped out of character. "Yeah. We have one every year after the highland games for all the clans of Moondoor. Last year's was off-the chain, man - plenty of beer and girls." The young man blushed deeply at the mention of the opposite sex, of which Sam was certain he had zero knowledge, but the kid recovered quickly. "Plus, we're a couple men down for the Queen's team , what with Gerry disappearing and Dustin getting shin splints during the battle, so we could sure use you. You guys kicked some serious ass today and if we had you on our team, we'd be sure to win."
Dean glanced at Sam hopefully. Sam could only shrug in acceptance. What could it hurt? It wasn't like they had their next job lined up yet, so it might be nice to take another day off.
Dean turned back to the kid, "You had me at 'beer'. Where is this place?"
"It's about ten minutes west of town." The wizard of the group, a heavy-set, middle aged man wearing thick glasses answered. "It's just a run-down farm that one of the orcs inherited from his uncle, so we always have our highland games out there. The field behind it is unused and the nearest neighbor is about half mile away so we can be as loud as want. Besides, the park banned us from hosting the highland games here since the infamous caber tossing incident of 2005."
"Caber tossing? Seriously?" Sam had to ask.
"Yeah ... " The older man grinned, eying Sam's shoulders with an appreciation that broadcasted the man's sexual preferences louder than a megaphone, causing Sam to shift uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. "I think you'd be great at tossing a pole."
Sam wished the wizard's magical powers were real. Maybe then the creepy guy could just wave his wand and disappear.
On second thought, maybe that wouldn't be such a good thing. Sam really didn't want to see him wave his wand.
"Oh … don't forget to make sure you wear traditional Highland garb with our clan's tartan." The wizard added, leering at Sam's legs before winking at him. "The rules state that anyone competing must wear it."
"Tartan?" Dean asked.
"Yeah. If you don't know were to get some, then you should see Hilda the clothier. Her tent's down that-a-way." He pointed.
"Uh … okay. I guess we'll go and check her out then." Dean agreed. "And we'll see you guys there tomorrow."
The kid who read them the invitation beamed, turning excitedly to his fellow knights, "Awesome! We're finally gonna kick the orcs' asses this year."
The group accompanying the young man cheered with a few 'huzzahs' tossed about before heading away from Sam and Dean. The wizard turned a little as he moved to follow the group and glanced suggestively at Sam over the top of his glasses, giving him a little finger wave. Sam tried to smile back politely, but was certain it came out more as a grimace.
Dean didn't take any notice of Sam's discomfort and started walking towards the clothier's tent.
Sam hurried to catch up. "You do know what a tartan is, don't you?"
"Yeah … you dip fish sticks in it." Dean clearly didn't have a clue.
Sam snorted. "Actually, it's a plaid pattern that's used to make–" Sam never got to finish his explanation, not that Dean was even listening to him anyway, as they stopped in front of the clothier's. A short, round woman enough to be their grandmother looked up from folding some fabric outside of her tent to smile and greet them.
"Why, hello. How can I help ye?" She asked, using a rather thick Scottish accent that actually might have been genuine.
"Are you Hilda?"
"Aye, that'd be me."
"We need some traditional Highland whatchamacallits–"Dean explained.
"Tartans," Sam added, "For the Queen's clan."
"Oh … ye be playin' in the games then?" She never gave them a chance to answer as she came bustling out of her booth, whipping out a yellow cloth measuring tape. "I fear I'm all out of anything ready to wear, but I should be able to whip up something by the morrow."
With a spryness that belied the grey in her hair, the small Scotswoman quickly pounced upon the two hunters, and started wrapping the tape around Dean's waist and legs before he could protest - not that Dean's sense of chivalry probably would have prevented him from telling a little old lady to shove off. So, for the most part, Dean endured the measuring with only a slight eye-roll to which Sam could only shrug with a little smirk.
"Ooh … look at those legs o'yours," She tutted as she pulled the tape from Dean's hip down to his knee, "Ye must spend a lot o' time in the saddle, no?" Sam tried not to snort as Dean turned a deep shade of pink. "Well … no matter, when I'm done with ye, the girlies will all come a runnin' once they see those firm calves."
Dean scrunched up his face, turned to Sam and mouthed the question, "See my calves?"
Clearly, Dean still hadn't put the clues together and figured out just what he was being fitted for. Sam was on the verge of losing it and giving in to the giggles building in his chest, when Hilda abandoned Dean and came towards him.
"Oi there …" She said, looking up with an appreciative gleam in her eyes, "Look at the size of ye …How tall you be?"
"Uh …" Sam stammered, "About 6 foot 4."
"Good Christ Almighty … I hope I'll have enough cloth fer ye," She chuckled as she brought out her measuring tape once more and whipped it around Sam's waist.
"Ooh … ye remind me of me late husband, Harry – God rest his soul. He was tall like ye …" Sam almost yelped in surprise the moment her hands roamed over his stomach and palpated his abdominal muscles, "But he sure weren't as solid as you, my boy."
Sam glanced over at Dean and upon seeing the amused smirk growing on his face, Sam knew his brother was enjoying the scene. Hilda's hands seemed to go everywhere all for the sake of 'measuring' him. But when she bent over and started to bring her tape up to measure his inseam, he tensed.
"Uh … is that really necessary?" Sam blurted.
"Oh, just relax, young man, ye be clenched up tighter than a tick in a dog." Hilda looked up from her position below him then winked and patted his backside, "Gotta make sure there'll be room for ye, now don't I? This'll only take but a second." Sam swallowed as her hands started roving again and he closed his eyes hoping that without the visuals he wouldn't feel so violated.
What is it with people today? He thought to himself. First, that weird, creepy wizard guy ogling him, now Hilda was pawing him in places he never imagined a women her age pawing him …
Sam felt his face flush hot while Dean snickered. Dean would never let him live this down. Sam could already hear his brother taunting him about being a 'cougar magnet' … again.
Finally Hilda seemed satisfied with her work and stood up. "Well … it's kinda last minute and it'll cost a little extra, but I think I can get you lads what you need by morn. I'll bring ye the kilts at the games … can't pass up the chance to watch all those muscles at work, now can I?" She grinned suggestively, winking again at Sam.
He really wished she would stop doing that.
Dean thanked Hilda and started walking off. Sam could still feel Hilda's eyes following him as he turned away from her and caught up to Dean who was grinning from ear to ear.
"Looks like we found your new girlfriend, huh Sammy?"
Sam clenched his jaw, "Shut up."
"Aw, c'mon … she may be older, but she's not dead … at least not for another week or so. I bet she's got experience… years and years … and years of it. You'd just have to be careful and not break either of her hips."
"She's probably adding you to her bucket list as we speak. -" Dean stopped in his tracks and spun on his brother, "Wait a sec … did she say kilts?"
Sam rolled his eyes and said, "Took you long enough to figure that out. Why do you think she only measured you down to your knees?"
"Dude … I'm not wearing a skirt."
"It's not a skirt."
"It's not pants either and as fine as these legs are, I don't show them off like some two-bit floozy. Hell, I haven't even worn shorts since 1994, there's no way I'm wearing a kilt."
"You wore lederhosen."
"And wigs are just fine?" Sam asked, pointing to Dean's head.
Dean touched his artificial locks, "Touché."
"But you know … we don't have to go if you're that worried about wearing the damned kilt." Sam started, going in for a little bit of reverse psychology. He wouldn't admit it to Dean, but he was actually looking forward to playing in the highland games. It was a little closer to authentic and true to historical anachronism than pretending to battle orcs with fake swords. "We could just leave town and forget the whole feats of strength contests and wild, debauched geek party afterward. Besides, we kill monsters for a living and that's way more impressive than showing off how manly you are compared to all these other, uh, guys here."
Dean stared at Sam for half a second and then suddenly raised his eyebrows, "They did say there was beer…"
Dean felt awesome.
He never imagined that he might come to actually enjoy wearing his new kilt, but he did … he really, really did.
Sure … he almost backed out of the games when Hilda handed him and Sam their outfits and gave them instructions on how to wear them correctly. But once he started walking around the field and felt a cool, refreshing breeze on the skin of his legs, he realized just how liberating it was.
His whole life he had lived with this constriction – a tight binding that never let go and kept everything tucked securely inside. But this – this new-found freedom – he could get used to this.
Hell … maybe he'd go commando all of the time and ditch his boxer briefs for good.
Sam was looking pretty free himself as the celebration following the games went on full-tilt. For a bunch of nerdy LARPers, Dean had to admit that they sure knew how throw a great party.
A massive bonfire was lit and as promised, there was plenty of beer and alcohol flowing. Dean was mostly glad to see his brother cut loose a little. Since he made his decision to leave Amelia for good, Sam had spent the better part of the last week brooding over it and he had been in complete stick-up-the-butt mode. But to see Sam having fun again, proudly wearing the blue ribbon he won in the caber toss and imbibe in a few … okay … more than a few drinks, gave Dean some hope that things might start to get back to the way they should be between the two of them.
Seeing Sam relax wasn't the only thing making Dean feel awesome. Their team might have come in second in the tug-o-war (only because the orc team was so fat that it was impossible to tug that much weight no matter how strong they were) but, he was still riding high on the spirit of the testosterone laced games. Even though he wasn't wearing pants, he felt more manly than he had in ages. Weird how wearing something that looked like a skirt could do that to a guy – as if the primal, Celtic warrior inside of him was being set free.
Dean took a long swig from his beer and decided to join his brother who was sitting next to Charlie and laughing along with a bunch of others, including Hilda the clothier, on a felled tree trunk beside the glow of the fire.
"Okay, Okay … my turn!" Charlie jumped in, bouncing up and down as she whipped a pointed, wizard's hat off of some poor middle-aged schmuck. She placed the hat on her head and turned to the circle of people around her, "Alright everyone. I've got the sorting hat now, so tell me which house I would be in, but if any of you say Slytherin, I may have to hurt you."
There as a chorus of laughs "Definitely Gryffindor," said Sam.
Charlie shrugged, "Really? I mean … Gryffindor is cool and all, especially since Harry's there, but I think I would actually fit better in Ravenclaw."
"What are you talking about?" Sam argued, eyes drooping, slurring his words a little as he took another swig of something from a plastic cup. (You've already established that Sam's been drinking.)"You're a na-natural leader – you're a fracking queen for Pete's sake. And I know for a fact that you're brave and kick ass – so yeah … definitely Gryffindor."
"Oh Sam, " Charlie cooed, "you're so sweet when you're drunk. If only you hadn't been born a guy …"
As Dean came closer, Charlie spun towards him, "Oh hey, Dean!"
"What's going on?"
"We're getting sorted. Wanna be next?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Charlie didn't seem to care as she took the hat off from her head and placed it on Dean's. "Hmmm … I say Hufflepuff."
A chorus of laughs rose from the gathered revelers, but they stopped dead after Dean ripped off the hat and shot them a dangerous glare.
"Are you calling me a puff?"
"It's not that bad, really. Like you, Hufflepuffs are just and loyal. Isn't that right, Sam?" Charlie asked as she turned around, but she didn't get an answer. Sam was no longer there.
The ground really needed to stop moving, because walking was getting pretty awkward, Sam thought dimly through the alcohol soaked synapses of his brain.
He really wasn't feeling so good. Nothing would stay still and even when he closed his eyes it felt like he was stuck on a high-speed merry-go-round.
Maybe he shouldn't have had that last cup of … whatever it was.
An inconsiderate tree left its root sticking out of the ground just for Sam to trip on and he went sprawling, landing on his bare knees.
Ow … That really hurt.
Sam rolled onto his backside, the flaps of his skirt … no, kilt … it was a kilt, dammit, flapped around him and left his bare rump exposed to the cold, leafy ground. He really should have worn some underwear, but no … he had to be all authentic and crap, didn't he?
Dizzily, he looked up and saw branches and leaves. Where was he and how did he get into the woods?
Why did he come here again?
Oh right … he needed to get away from people before he puked on anyone.
He promptly emptied the contents of his stomach onto the leafy ground.
"Gross." He muttered, scooting on his bottom away from the mess until his back encountered the rough bark of a tree. He breathed out a sigh, feeling slightly better, but suddenly sleepy.
Well … it seemed comfy enough, and he might as well rest for just a few minutes before he went back to Dean and ask him to take them back to their motel so he could sleep in a real bed. But for now … he just needed to shut his eyes for a second or two.
Hilda saw Sam stumble off towards the woods before the others did. Making sure no one was watching, she followed after him.
She had been quite taken with the young man ever since he came to her little clothing booth and she had enjoyed spending the day watching him compete.
That boy certainly knew how to handle a caber.
She wasn't dead yet and an old woman needed a little fun now and then, didn't she? Seeing him walk off towards the trees to more than likely relieve himself, she felt a tingling of mischief spark inside of her.
What would it hurt to just look?
She stayed in the shadows of the dark woods near the field. The boy didn't make it far before he tripped and fell on his knees. She winced a little seeing him fall and then follow that by throwing up. Yep – this boy was a lot like her Harry used to be – always drowning in his cups, he was –God rest his soul.
Hilda sighed and supposed that she wasn't going to get any kind of show after all. That was until she saw the boy scoot backwards and back up to a tree and lean his head back, eyes drooping until he started to snore.
Well … he seemed down for the count.
As quietly as her creaky joints allowed, she crept towards the slumbering man and gently, ever so gently, she lifted the hem of his kilt.
Her eyes widened and she had to shove her fist to her mouth in order to stifle a squeal.
Sweet Mother of Mercy, but that was an impressive sight!
This was definitely one way this boy differed from her Harry; he looked to be cut from the same mold as the Gods themselves while her late husband had looked more like he had been cut from a wee hobbit - God rest his soul.
Now that she had had her look-see, Hilda's first thought was to head on back to the others and enjoy the rest of the celebration before she got caught. But when she caught sight of the blue ribbon adorning the young man's shirt, she just couldn't suppress the sudden urge to do one last thing.
A little reward for the boy was in order, she decided; something special to thank him for giving an old lady such a wondrous show. She reached for the ribbon and unfastened it from his shirt and began to unravel it. Then, lifting the hem of his kilt one last time, she got to work.
Dean looked everywhere for Sam.
He checked back at the car – no Sam
He looked for him with the group of guys playing beer pong – no Sam.
He asked everyone around the fire if they had seen Sam or which way he had gone, but to his frustration no one had seen him, that is until he ran across the old lady that had made the kilts for them.
"Oh … ya lookin' for that fine young man?" She asked, her eyes twinkling with mirth and a hint of mischief, "Why, I think I saw 'im go into the woods 'bout a half hour ago."
She pointed towards the wooded area just south of the field with a broad grin on her ruddy face, "When ye find 'im, tell 'im I said congrats on his first prize ribbon."
Dean didn't really get a chance to respond as she tottered off. He thought her comment was just praise for Sam's victory in the caber toss, but the last thing Sam needed was an ego boost – he'd been rubbing his blue ribbon in Dean's face all day, mocking the red one Dean won from the tug-o-war.
Dean started for the woods, hearing soft chuckles coming from Hilda as she walked off in the opposite direction. The fact that the funny, little old Scotswoman had the hots for Sam was something Dean wasn't going to let his little brother forget anytime soon.
He found his wayward sibling; leaning against a trunk just past the tree line, legs spread out before him, deeply asleep.
"Sam?" Dean spoke up as he approached and then leaned down to shake his shoulder, "Wake up, Dude."
Sam groaned and turned his head, but waking was not something he seemed to want any part of yet.
"G'way. M'tired." Sam mumbled, sending a waft of whiskey and vomit breath Dean's way.
Dean gagged. "God … your breath smells like a friggin' porta-potty."
Sam stubbornly refused to wake and it looked like Dean was going to have to do this hard way.
Reaching for the inside of Sam's upper arm, he pinched a healthy amount of skin through his shirt and squeezed tight.
"Ow!" Sam's eyes flew wide open as he yanked his head up.
"Bitch, I'm not carrying your heavy ass."
"You're th'ass." Sam muttered, hiccupping as he glared at Dean. Bending his knees, Sam shifted his feet until they were underneath him in a squat. Dean grabbed Sam's elbow and helped him to stand with a grunt, keeping a firm grip on his brother when the latter wobbled unsteadily.
"Time to go, big guy." Dean encouraged, pulling Sam along as he led him out of the woods and back towards the field.
Sam hung his head and stumbled along for a few feet when he stopped short and pulled away from Dean's grasp, heading back towards the trees.
"Dude … what are you doing?"
"Gotta …hiccup piss." Sam slurred slowly, holding a hand out and grabbing the nearest tree and practically hugging it as he attempted to get some stability. Dean rolled his eyes and turned around so Sam could have a little privacy. He wondered how his hulk of a brother could get so wasted on just a few drinks. Dean wasn't even buzzed and he'd had more to drink than Sam. Then again … Dean's alcohol tolerance would probably make Keith Richards jealous.
Behind the tree there was a rustling of fabric as Sam fumbled with his kilt. Then there was a gasp, followed by a panicked "what the hell?" from the younger man.
Hearing Sam's distress, Dean turned around hurriedly, and then stopped dead in his tracks. Once his brain computed just what it was he was seeing, a grin broke out across Dean's face and he released a long, drawn-out snort from his nose.
"Dean … why did you? This is just … I can't believe you would …" Sam stammered, quickly dropping the hem of the kilt then reaching under it to hastily undo the what had been done to him without showing anything off, but it was too late – Dean had seen everything and started laughing so hard that he could hardly see past the tears streaming from his eyes.
"It wasn't me … I swear!" Dean held up his hands, only managing to keep them up for half a second before he doubled over, hysterical giggles taking hold.
Still reaching under his kilt, Sam finally managed to free himself and pull out the blue ribbon that had been tied with a bow like a maypole around places a ribbon should never go. From underneath the kilt he pulled it up and held it up angrily.
"Not funny! I've been … hiccup violated!" Sam exclaimed, dropping the ribbon and walking away in an unsteady zigzag fashion.
Gasping and trying to catch his breath, Dean eventually pulled off the near-impossible, gathering enough breath to call out toward his punked little brother's retreating back:
"Guess it wasn't only for the caber toss that you won first prize."